The metallic tang of blood and the scent of rain-drenched ozone collided in the suffocating atmosphere of the Thorne master suite. The world outside was a cacophony of thunder, but inside, the silence was shattered by the terrifying sound of a blade gliding against skin.
Reyansh stood frozen, the cold, curved steel of the assassin's knife biting into the pulse point of his throat. The intruder was a phantom of the night—lean, masked, and moving with a lethal grace that suggested professional training. His gloved hand was clamped tightly over Reyansh's mouth, stifling any warning or roar of defiance.
Across the room, bound to the ornate headboard by silver restraints, Sia's heart didn't just beat; it hammered against her ribs like a trapped animal. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the glint of the blade. She saw the thin line of red beginning to bloom where the steel met Reyansh's neck.
In that moment, the hatred she had nurtured for weeks flickered and died, replaced by a raw, primal terror. She didn't want him dead. Not like this.
"Mmmph!" Reyansh grunted, his eyes snapping with a predatory fire even in the face of death. Despite the wound in his side and the exhaustion in his bones, the alpha in him refused to submit.
He moved with a sudden, violent burst of energy. Instead of pulling away from the blade, he leaned into it, catching the assassin off guard. He drove his elbow backward into the intruder's solar plexus and used his weight to slam the man against the balcony glass. The window rattled, nearly shattering under the force.
The assassin hissed, the knife slipping and slicing a shallow crimson trail across Reyansh's collarbone. The masked man was fast, recovering instantly and swinging a heavy kick toward Reyansh's bandaged side. Reyansh gasped, his face contorting in agony as the blow landed directly on his existing wound. He fell to one knee, the world spinning in shades of grey.
"Reyansh!" Sia screamed, her voice finally breaking free. She lunged forward, but the silver cuff jerked her back, the metal biting deep into her wrist.
The assassin didn't go for the kill immediately. He looked at Sia, then at the laptop glowing on the desk. He realized what they had been watching. He raised the knife again, stepping toward the kneeling, weakened Reyansh for a final, lethal strike.
"No! Stop!" Sia roared.
She didn't think. She didn't calculate. She grabbed the heavy crystal lamp on the bedside table with her free hand and hurled it with every ounce of her strength. It missed the assassin's head but shattered against the wall behind him, the explosion of glass momentarily distracting him.
In that split second of distraction, Sia did something insane. She didn't try to unlock the cuff; she didn't have the key. Instead, she tucked her thumb deep into her palm, ignoring the sickening pop of a partial dislocation, and forced her hand through the narrow silver loop. The metal scraped skin and muscle, drawing blood that acted as a gruesome lubricant. With a cry of muffled agony, her hand slid free, leaving a trail of crimson on the white silk sheets.
She threw herself off the bed, her injured hand hanging limp, and grabbed the heavy brass fire poker from the hearth.
The assassin turned, surprised by the sheer ferocity of the woman he had dismissed as a prisoner. Sia swung the iron rod with a scream of pure, unadulterated rage. It caught the intruder across the shoulder, the crack of bone echoing in the room.
Reyansh, seeing his opening, surged upward. He didn't use a weapon. He used his bare hands, his fingers locking around the assassin's throat with a strength fueled by madness. He slammed the man's head against the marble fireplace once, twice, until the masked figure went limp.
"Sia..." Reyansh gasped, his voice a ghost of itself.
He didn't look at the unconscious assassin. He didn't look at the blood dripping from his own neck. His eyes were locked on Sia's hand. The sight of her mangled, bloody wrist and the dislocated thumb made the world tilt on its axis.
He stumbled toward her, catching her just as her legs gave out. He sank to the floor, pulling her into his lap, his large hands trembling as they hovered over her injury. The Unwanted Romance was no longer a game of power; it was a devastating collision of two broken souls.
"You stupid, reckless woman," he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion that sounded terrifyingly like grief. He pulled her against his chest, his head tucking into the crook of her neck. "Why? Why would you do that for me?"
Sia was shaking, the adrenaline fading to leave behind a searing, throbbing pain. She clutched his damp shirt, her forehead resting against his shoulder. "I couldn't... I couldn't let him take you. Not before you see the truth. Not before you know who really killed your father."
Reyansh pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, swirling with a mixture of obsessive possessiveness and a new, frighteningly soft vulnerability. He reached out with his uninjured hand, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
"I told you," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "You are mine. Your life, your blood—it belongs to me. You had no right to scar yourself for my sake."
Despite the blood and the horror, a spark of electricity surged between them. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her forehead, a lingering, reverent touch that felt like a brand. For a moment, the hatred, the lawsuits, and the lies vanished. There was only the heat of their bodies and the frantic rhythm of two hearts beating as one in the aftermath of death.
But the moment was shattered by a soft, mechanical beep from the desk.
Reyansh stiffened. He stood up, lifting Sia in his arms as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the desk. He sat her in the chair and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders—a protective, dominating stance.
The laptop screen had changed. The secondary file Sia had spotted earlier was now fully open.
"The North Wing. Room 402. The truth is buried in the shadows of the nursery."
Reyansh's grip on Sia's shoulders tightened. "The North Wing has been sealed since I was five years old. My mother told me it was unstable... that the fire ten years ago made it unsafe."
"The video showed the family ring, Reyansh," Sia said, her voice stronger now. "And this message says you aren't the heir. If you aren't the heir, then the person who killed your father didn't just want revenge. They wanted the throne. And they're still in this house."
Reyansh looked at the unconscious assassin on the floor. He stepped over and ripped the mask off.
Sia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
It wasn't a stranger. It was the young gardener, a boy who had been working at the estate for less than a month. But in his pocket was a high-frequency transmitter—the kind used by the mansion's internal security team.
"He wasn't sent from the outside," Reyansh whispered, his voice turning into ice. "He was sent from the inside. My own security... my own mother's payroll."
He looked at the door. The humming had stopped, but the shadow under the door was still there. Gayatri was waiting.
"We can't stay here," Reyansh said, his eyes flashing with a new, dangerous resolve. He grabbed a first-aid kit from the drawer, quickly and roughly binding Sia's bloody wrist with a clean bandage. He didn't say a word, but the way he lingered over the knot, his fingers grazing her skin, spoke of a brewing storm.
He grabbed his gun from the safe and turned to her. "We're going to the North Wing. If the truth is there, we find it tonight. But understand this, Sia—if that vault contains proof that your father was involved, I will not hesitate. This truce ends the moment the lights come on."
"And if it proves your mother is the killer?" Sia challenged, standing up and ignoring the pain in her hand.
Reyansh looked at her, a dark, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "Then the Thorne Mansion will have a new queen, and a very crowded graveyard."
He grabbed her hand—the uninjured one—and led her toward the hidden service corridor behind the tapestry. They stepped into the darkness of the forgotten wing, unaware that the assassin on the floor was beginning to stir, his hand reaching for a hidden button on his collar.
The hunt had only just begun.
Author's Note
The blood is on the floor and the masks are coming off! 🩸🎭 Sia sacrificed her own flesh to save Reyansh, but was it for love or for the truth? The Unwanted Romance is burning hotter than the bakery fire, but the shadows in the North Wing are even darker. 🥀🏰
Is Reyansh really a Thorne? Or is he just a pawn in a much bigger game? 🕵️♀️💎
To my 5.1k silent readers—I know you're there! Don't let Sia's sacrifice go in vain!
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